Cherise Sinclair - If only

God, her behind stung and burned, and that plug was vibrating each nerve into a state of intense arousal that she hadn’t felt in months. “Oh God,” she moaned.

His chuckle was gruff. Pleased. “I’ve missed torturing your sweet body into orgasms.”

She heard the sound of his jean’s zipper, and his cock pressed against her entrance. He slid in deeply, ruthlessly, filling her.

Her bound wrists jerked—couldn’t move—and she sank down, completely down, into acceptance. Couldn’t do anything. Could only take and take.

And oh, he gave. Slow and steady, so very controlled, using his legs to pin her thighs against the sofa. He reached around and ran a finger over her slick clit.

“Oh, oh, oh.” She was so ready. Right there.

“Give it to me, little sub,” he murmured, and he rubbed ruthlessly. One side, the other, and she broke, exploding into a magnificent orgasm, the sensations lashing through her in a maelstrom of intensity, until she trembled under his hands.

His laugh was deep and satisfied. “Oh yeah, your body liked that. You haven’t changed, pet.” Gripping her hips hard, he drove into her, forceful and fast and rough, until she heard only the slap, slap, slap of their bodies. He drove her back up until she was squirming under him.

With a low groan, he pressed inside her and came, emptying himself in her.

Despite the hum of arousal he’d reawakened in her, she sank into the couch, happier than she’d been for ever so long. The tie—that elusive tie between them—was back. His masculine scent surrounded her; his arms were anchoring bands.

“You are beautiful. My wonderful little sub,” he whispered in her ear. “Stand up, sweetling.” He pulled her upright and helped her step out of her jeans and panties. He turned off the anal plug.

He didn’t remove it.

Didn’t remove the shirt around her wrists.

“Sir?”

His lips curved as he turned her around. “Time for a shower. I’ll get my bag from the closet, and we’ll start over.” He thumbed her nipple back to a jutting point. “We have all night, you know.”

The tremor that shook her body felt like heaven. Oh yes. Sally, I owe you a big hug.

As he tucked an arm around her and guided her up the stairs, she wondered if she’d be able to walk in the morning.

Settled at the table in Gabi’s kitchen, Sally tapped her fingers on her laptop. Side by side on another chair, Gabi’s two black cats watched her. Hamlet and Horatio. One sleek; one fluffy. The house was quiet since Master Marcus and Gabi had left to attend a karate tournament to cheer for some teenagers.

Sally had wanted to stay and do some thinking. Late last night, she’d had a long talk with Gabi and Marcus. They’d been wonderfully understanding.

And she’d reached a few decisions.

She’d been wrong to blame herself for what happened with her and the Feds. If she hadn’t been so ready to believe she was a selfish person—thanks, Father—she’d have demanded an explanation from them.

So, once this was all settled, she’d take Gabi’s advice and see about some counseling. The men had brought her a long way, but taking the next step—getting herself some help—was up to her.

And, dammit, she’d been wrong to blame the overprotective—gutless—men she loved. They were trying to keep her safe, and who knew, maybe she’d make the same decision if she were in their shoes.

Really, there was only one person to blame for messing up her relationship with her Doms. That arsonist.

He’d killed Tillman, the police, and that poor woman. His brother had shot Vance. The anger from that fed into her determination. She’d been content to promise to give up hacking since it seemed as if she’d done what she could. That the Association would be destroyed quickly enough.

She’d been almost right. But there was one left, and he was the reason she hadn’t woken up this morning snuggled between two muscular male bodies.

Since the bastard had ripped apart her relationship with the Feds, she thought it was perfectly logical that he’d also severed any promises she’d made to the Feds.

Logic is an excellent weapon when employed correctly.

She opened her laptop. Ever since she’d handed over her files to Galen and Vance, her hacking software had been calling her—Sally, Sally, Sally.

And now…she answered the summons. Mouth set in a straight line, she logged on.

In New York, Galen, being careful—might even call him a bit paranoid—had monitored as she deleted her computer worm program and Association files. And he’d even demanded she turn over the flash drives. She smirked as her fingers ran over the keyboard.

Wasn’t it a shame that he’d missed seeing the tiny tray icon denoting a continuous online backup? And that he hadn’t realized the e-mails came from an online mail program and weren’t deleted?

“I never cheated. Never checked the software or e-mails,” she told the cats virtuously. “I was a good girl.”

She looked around the room. Even checked under the table. “Well, hell, guys. I don’t see any good girls here today. Do you?”

Hamlet offered a tail flick of agreement.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” She clicked onto the Internet and smiled as her files opened up like a cannon barrage. Target my Galen, will you?

Fuck that. If war was what the arsonist wanted, war was what he’d get.

* * *

Seated in front of his computer, Vance was drinking coffee, typing up a report, and trying to ignore how empty the house felt without Sally. The morning had passed with the speed of cold molasses.

Too antsy to sit, Galen had spent the last few hours working on the dungeon in the cabana before returning to the office and covering the center table with his weapons.

A timer went off with a quiet beep-beep-beep.

Vance glanced over his shoulder. “What’s that for?”

Galen frowned. His rifle and three automatic handguns were dismantled and scattered over the table on opened newspapers, ready for cleaning. It was his ritual as he prepared for action.

On the far side of the table, Glock supervised from a safe distance.

Everyone reacted to impending danger in different ways. Galen liked to clean his weapons; Vance lifted weights.

“The timer is for the backsplash in the cabana. The grout is set; it’s ready to be buffed and caulked.” Galen wiped his hands on a paper towel. “I’ll get that done and be back to finish up.” His brief smile didn’t get to his eyes. “Don’t let anyone burn the place down until I get my weapons reassembled.”

“Do my best.” Vance took a drink of his coffee. “Though I’d rather be in New York, taking that bastard down.”

Late last night, Drew Somerfeld’s credit card had popped onto the FBI radar. Apparently Ellis had booked himself onto a flight to Florida this afternoon. He’d probably lifted his brother’s ID and cards from the safe. Since he and Drew were twins, he’d pass well enough as his brother.

But the asshole would never make that flight. NYPD planned to nail his ass the minute he tried to check in. Only another half hour to wait.

If he wasn’t just playing them.

Didn’t matter. With two cops dead and Galen a target, the brass in Tampa wanted him and Galen to stay put. To keep them safe, sure, but also to serve as bait if needed. The only two ways to reach their property—the lakeshore drive and the lake itself—were being guarded.

Actually Vance had absolutely no problem with their caution.

“Not long to wait,” Galen said, glancing at the clock. “If he doesn’t get on that flight, then…hell.”

“The bastard’s definitely crazy as bug shit. It’d suck if he’s also smart.”

“True.” Galen scowled, moving his shoulders. “Maybe that’s why it feels wrong to be unarmed. Think I’ll finish up here first and—”

“Leave that shit on the tiles too long, and you’ll never get it off.”

“Fine. Be a good guard dog till I get back.” With a grunt of annoyance, Galen strode out of the office.

A couple of minutes later, Vance’s cell rang. “You got a beat-up red Toyota Camry coming in.” The call came from a special agent stationed half a mile away, watching the turnoff to the lakeshore drive. Pretty convenient that he and Galen lived on an isolated lake with only one access road. “Got a pretty brunette at the wheel. Looks like the one whose picture’s on your desk.”

“Got it. Thanks.” Sally was coming.

Damn, but he wanted to see her. Only, please God, don’t let her cry. Hell, he’d handled everything so poorly; she’d misinterpreted everything he’d said.

He’d hurt her.

Fuck. The knowledge ate at his gut. He’d tried to call her last night. Galen had as well. And texted her. No response. They’d left voice mails.

For God’s sake, Dan was supposed to have explained everything before he took her home with him. When they’d finally reached him this morning, they’d found that Sally had gone home with Marcus.

So she didn’t know…

But he knew the imp. Knew her strength. And intelligence. Even without Dan or Galen or Vance’s explanations, Sally would figure out what was going on. She’d either hack out the info or weasel it out of someone. By now, she’d know why they’d sent her away.

He’d thought she would call.

He should have known better. Being Sally, she’d want to yell at them in person. Fuck, he loved her.

His smile grew. Even though he’d still have to send her away for her own safety, anticipation hummed through his body. After he apologized his ass off—and maybe swatted her ass for risking her neck by coming here—he could have her sweet body in his arms for a few minutes. Listen to her bright voice, her laughter…or, more likely, her shouting.

Just don’t let her cry, please.

He walked out the front door and glanced around. Impenetrable growth lay on each side of their property—Florida’s version of a chain-link fence—which would take a machete and flamethrower to get through.

Her car pulled into the drive. And just in case Somerfeld had gotten to her, was hiding in her car, Vance had drawn his weapon.

But she slid out, slammed the door, and scowled at him with an expression that was easy to read. Her chin was up, her shoulders squared. She certainly wasn’t a terrified kidnapped victim.

She was prepared for battle. Damn, she made him proud. She’d argue, undoubtedly, that the chances of her being targeted were slim to none. That all the deaths had happened in New York. That she belonged with them.

But no. He holstered his weapon and stood where he was. Waiting.

As she walked toward him, her control slipped, and he grinned when she broke into a run.

She slammed into him and hugged him, holding him so tightly she shook with the effort.

Unable to help himself, he pulled her closer. Breathing in her clean, sweet scent was like unexpectedly finding almond cookies. So fucking sweet. “Shhh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We’ll work this out somehow.”

“You told me to move out.” Her words were muffled by being said into his chest. “I’m really mad at you.” Her arms didn’t loosen in the least.

Don’t laugh. “I know.”

“I figured out why, but did you have to be so mean about it?”

Hell, exactly what they’d realized, far too late. “I should have explained.” He rubbed his chin on her silky hair. “Trouble is, we’d just seen the pictures of the other cops who were killed. And you called, and while you were on the phone, I saw photos of the woman he murdered. It was an ugly death, Sally.”

“Kari told me.”

“After seeing those, all we could think about was keeping you safe. If the bastard comes after Galen for revenge, we want you far, far away.”

The last bit of tension slid out of her body, and she leaned against him fully, all soft curves. “I don’t think sending me away is the right answer.”

And because of her spiteful father, sending her away would affect her more than most women. He frowned. What if the asshole didn’t get caught in the next hour? If this dragged on and on. “Maybe we can find a way to compromise.” Maybe all of them at a safe house? Maybe they could move. Or work from home. Or never leave Sally alone so she always had one guard. Teach her to shoot. Get a big dog—Raoul had found an excellent shepherd for his Kim, one from a company that specialized in protecting women. Move to Mexico. He huffed a laugh. Yes, he was losing his mind. She needed to leave. “Let me talk to Galen about it.”